


The Language of Flowers

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Florists, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mycroft is Sweet, POV Greg, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 09:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15069965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: Stricken with PTSD and anger management issues ex-army man Greg Lestrade considers himself unemployable until the owner of Sherrinford Nurseries takes a chance on him. Greg discovers he has a gift but the owner, Mycroft Holmes, and the world's most aggravating client could easily disturb his newfound peace.





	The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a beautiful head canon posted on Tumblr by @rupertograves and some pretty begging by my mutuals. This is the result.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS

  
  
  


Stricken with PTSD and anger management issues, ex-Army man Greg Lestrade considers himself unemployable until an old Army mate gets in touch with a proposition. Sherrinford Nurseries need an extra pair of hands and they are used to people who might need a bit of extra support getting back into work. What has Greg got to lose? Plants don't mouth off at you or make unreasonable demands, do they? Only the presence of the owner, one Mycroft Holmes, and a really annoying client threaten to upset Greg's newly-won equilibrium.

 

*

 

John Watson pushed the freshy-pulled pint across the table to Greg Lestrade who seized it and took a healthy swig.

 

“Will you think about it?” John persisted.

 

“Where did you say it was again?” Greg asked, playing for time.

 

“Sherrinford Nurseries. My friend Molly works there and she says they’re doing so well they need someone else. More than minimum wage and you're not contractually obliged to talk to anyone if you don't want to.”

 

John watched the warring emotions on his friend's face. He knew Greg had had a rough time of it on his last tour of Afghanistan, had seen too much and felt too much and come home broken in mind and spirit. He was getting help with his PTSD but John had been there the night Greg punched the wall when he thought some bloke was laughing at him. His simmering anger was always just under the surface and it didn't take much for it to boil over. John thought having a job to concentrate on would help. It might distract Greg from his dark thoughts and just possibly keep him out of prison.

 

Civvy Street hadn't been kind to his friend. John wanted to help considering his own service hadn't been anything like as traumatic but he knew he was one of the lucky ones.

 

“Have you got a phone number or something for them?” asked Greg casually. John tried not to smirk as he handed over the business card and waited as Greg made the call.

 

*

 

Two days later Greg tugged nervously at the tie that was threatening to strangle him as he approached the entrance to Sherrinford Nurseries. It was a warm day and Greg felt self-conscious in his suit but he was aware he had to make a good impression. Just outside the door a youngish woman with dark curling hair, wearing jeans and a royal blue shirt, was waiting. She smiled as he approached.

 

“Hi. Are you Greg?”

 

“Yes. Greg Lestrade. I'm here for an interview.”

 

“Sally Donovan. I'm the manager. Come with me and we'll get started.”

 

They shook hands and Greg followed her into a cluttered office which held a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet and what looked like a thousand seed catalogues. She gestured to one of the two chairs in the room and Greg sat, aware he was sweating.

 

“Tell me a bit about yourself, Greg.” she began.

 

He briefly outlined his career;school, Army and his recent return to Civvy Street. His hands started to shake quite badly during the recitation so he gripped his knees tight. The gesture didn't escape Sally Donovan but he saw only empathy in her dark eyes.

 

“What do you know about growing plants?” Sally asked.

 

“Not much if I'm honest,” he admitted. “But I  _ am _ reliable. Hardworking. Please, I just want a chance.”

 

He hated sounding so pathetic but to his amazement, Sally smiled.

 

“It's okay, Greg. We pride ourselves on helping people make a fresh start. In fact…”

 

Just then the most glorious looking man Greg had seen in years walked into the office. Dressed in jeans and the same royal blue shirt as Sally, he was tall and slender with auburn hair and striking blue eyes he looked at Greg and Sally and, to Greg's delight, blushed.

 

“I'm sorry, Sally. I didn't realise you were busy. Do forgive me.”

 

“It's okay, boss. I'm interviewing Greg for Nick’s job.” Sally said.

 

The man surveyed Greg and smiled.

 

“I'm Mycroft Holmes,” he said, extending his hand for Greg to shake. “The owner of Sherrinford.”

 

“Lovely to meet you,” stuttered Greg. “I'm Greg Lestrade.”

 

“Ex-Army?”

 

Greg nodded.

 

Mycroft turned to Sally and said.

 

“Why don't I give Greg the tour and you can get on with Mr Anderson’s order? “

 

“If you wouldn't mind, boss. Molly needs all the help she can get keeping him happy.”

 

Greg followed Mycroft out of the office, across a paved area stacked with wooden pallets and an abandoned wheelbarrow and into one of the biggest greenhouses Greg had ever seen.

 

“We try and grow all our stock.ourselves,” explained Mycroft. “We supply local florists and garden centres. There seems to be a never ending demand for flowers of every kind. Not that I'm complaining. You would be working in here, Greg. Weeding, feeding and watering. Then pruning and plucking. You honestly don't need to know much about horticulture, all I ask from my employees is that they work hard.”

 

Greg drank in the myriad smells and colours and felt a little of the ache in his soul evaporate. To spend every day here would be a piece of heaven.

 

“Hard work I can do,” he muttered.

 

“I'll provide your work clothes and protective equipment. This is a family business so you'd be entitled to a share of the profits. If you still want to work here, that is.”

 

“I do,” said Greg fervently.

 

Mycroft reached out, one of his long fingers stroking the leaf of a freshly-sprouted seedling.

 

“My brother is a recovering drug addict, Greg. When he came out of rehab, he worked here for a while. Since then I have made it my business to try and help people who other employers might shun. So far it has served me well. I value loyalty and enthusiasm. Come. I need to show you the jewel in the crown.”

 

Obediently Greg followed Mycroft out of the greenhouse and into another building which was full of freshly-cut flowers. Binder wire, coloured ribbons and oasis were scattered everywhere and, in the middle of it all were Sally and a petite dark-haired woman working on a truly magnificent flower arrangement. Greg felt his jaw drop.

 

“This is our floristry department,” said Mycroft proudly. “It's not the sort if place you'd come for a bunch of daffodils, we do.mostly corporate arrangements, wedding venues, that sort of thing. Molly here is our resident genius.”

 

The dark-haired woman looked up at the mention of her name and gave Greg a shy smile.

 

“It looks incredible.” Greg said.

 

“Thanks,” she replied.

 

“And that completes the tour.” said Mycroft. “Come back to the office and I will take some more of your details.”

 

“Bye,” said Greg to the women.

 

Back in Sally's office Mycroft asked Greg to fill in a boilerplate application form then smiled.

 

“I'd like to offer you the job, Greg. When can you start?”

 

“As soon as you want me,” said Greg, thrilled at being offered such a chance. Then the happy balloon that was swelling inside him got a puncture.

 

“There's one thing, Mr Holmes. I'm seeing a therapist. I have PTSD, you see. Would I be able to still attend my appointments? It's only once a week for an hour. I'd be more than willing to make the time up afterwards.”

 

“On one condition,” said Mycroft gravely. “You must call me Mycroft.”

 

“Mycroft it is,” said Greg with a relieved smile.

 

“In that case, welcome aboard, Greg.”

 

“I promise I won't let you down.” Greg vowed.

 

*

 

Greg met up with John for a pint a couple of weeks later and John was delighted with the change in his friend. He had lost that look of brooding intensity that had seemed so troubling to John.

 

Greg spoke of busy days planting and watering and spending time with a bunch of friendly, supportive people. 

 

“I spoke to Molly the other day,” said John as he returned from the bar. “She says you're doing great. She likes you, Greg.”

 

“Yeah. We've taken to having our lunch together most days. She's a very sweet woman. She's asked me round to dinner one night next week, her and Stella.”

 

“Wonder if I can wangle an invite as well,” said John wistfully. “Stella is an incredible cook.”

 

Greg grinned widely at that.

 

“Lucky me. Look, John. I honestly don't know if I can ever thank you enough for getting me this job. I go to bed at night worn out through hard graft and I sleep like a rock. I haven't had a nightmare or a flashback since I started there. My therapist thinks it's marvellous but it's more than that. I think you saved me,John, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.”

 

John blushed, pleased and embarrassed in equal measure.

 

“All I did was give you a number, mate. You did the rest all on your own. Though I don't mind taking a little bit of the credit. What's your boss like? Molly loves him, just wondered what you thought of him.”

 

Greg considered his reply briefly.

 

“All I've ever really known boss-wise is Army officers.” Greg began. “He's as far removed from that as anyone could imagine. He stops and has a chat every day. He's even had his lunch with Molly and I a few times. He genuinely cares about the people who work for him.”

 

_ And he's gorgeous with his red hair and freckles and his soft smile and the twinkle he's got in those amazing eyes when he finds something funny or clever. I've seen those hands of his arranging a wedding bouquet and wondered what they would feel like on my skin. But you don't need to know that, John. It would make you awfully uncomfortable. _

 

Satisfied, John took another swig from his pint and the conversation turned to football.

 

*

 

“Here, Greg. Will you take these over to the arranging room for Molly? My hip’s aching something cruel this morning.”

 

Dave, Greg's elderly co-worker in the greenhouse, pointed to a large box filled to the brim with pale roses and baby's breath.

 

“Yeah, course. Back in a minute.”

 

Greg hefted the box and made his way to the arrangement room only to find Molly in tears and muttering oaths he hadn't heard since he was a raw recruit on the parade ground.

 

“What's wrong?” Greg asked, putting the box down and hugging her. 

 

“It's this...this  _ fucking  _ arrangement!” she sobbed, her hand flailing in the general direction of the door. “It's not good enough for Philip fucking Anderson and I don't know what I can do to make it any better!”

 

Greg handed her a paper hankie and while she blew her nose and wiped her eyes he surveyed what she had created.

 

He saw it almost immediately;as plain as a wrong note in a tune. Hesitantly Greg said, “Look, Molly, I don't want to get above myself here but I think I know what he thinks is wrong with it.”

 

She sniffed and looked at him curiously.

 

“Forget it,” he said, turning away.”I'm no florist.”

 

She grabbed his arm.

 

“No. Don't think like that. Show me.”

 

Greg turned back to the display and pointed.

 

“The purple flowers up there. They make it look top-heavy. If he wants it to look like the colour is bleeding down to the bottom then you want the smaller, paler ones at the top and the bigger, more colourful buds at the bottom.”

 

Molly grinned at him. “You're right. Help me, will you?”

 

They made a start and were so engrossed in getting it right that neither of them heard the door open or Mycroft walk in.

 

“Excellent work.” Mycroft said making them both jump.

 

“All down to Greg, boss.” said Molly. “He knew exactly what was wrong. I just couldn't see it.”

 

“Did he now?” Mycroft asked. Greg wanted to vanish into the woodwork but there was that twinkle in Mycroft's eye that very much made him want to stay.

 

“This is most impressive, Greg. You've got a real eye for composition.”

 

“Thank you.” replied Greg, feeling his face heat up. He had so rarely been told he was good at anything that he found it a bit overwhelming, especially when it came from Mycroft. 

 

“That should keep Anderson's face straight till the next time,” laughed Mycroft. “He really is the most irritating creature but he's one of our biggest customers,” he explained to Greg. “I'll make sure you get the credit for this. Perhaps…” Mycroft sounded hesitant now. “Perhaps you might consider helping out again with some of our orders. If that's okay with Molly, that is.”

 

“It's fine by me, boss. Greg, what do you think?”

 

“Yeah. I think I'd enjoy that.” he admitted. “As long as I can keep working in the greenhouse too.”

 

Mycroft looked taken aback but Greg preferred the quiet and the warmth indoors. Plants and flowers didn't give you attitude or answer back and they didn't complain if your fingers were cold when you touched them. It was a restful, soothing environment for him and he was in no hurry to move on.

 

“Whatever you want, Greg.” Mycroft replied.

 

*

 

_ Two Months Later _

 

Greg tied the florists apron over his shirt and jeans and opened the door of Sherrinford's to potential customers. Molly was on a week's holiday and Greg had promised Mycroft he would look after things while she was away. He had discovered a real flair for flower arranging and enjoyed the positive feedback from their customers almost as much as the approving smiles from Mycroft. He started on a wedding arrangement, the bride's bouquet and the bridesmaids posies,humming along to the music on the radio as he worked, oblivious to everything but the flowers until someone clearing their throat in a thoroughly irritated manner made him turn round.

 

The man scowling at him was tall and skinny with a hipster goatee beard but no amount of designer clothing could disguise the fact that he looked like an angry ferret.

 

Greg straightened up and wiped his hands on his apron.

 

“Good morning, sir. Can I help you?”

 

The man's lip curled in utter contempt.

 

“I  _ seriously  _ doubt it. Where's Molly?”

 

“On holiday at the moment. Won't be back till next week.”

 

Greg picked up his pen and the order pad from the counter.

 

“Are you sure there isn't something I can help you with?”

 

The man scowled deeply then huffed.

 

“I need an arrangement for the Black and White Ball I'm curating at The Dorchester next week. Ten table arrangements and one for the top table.”

 

“I'm sure we can accommodate that,” said Greg, scribbling furiously on the order pad. “Any particular flowers in mind or will you leave that up to our discretion?”

 

“It's a Black and White Ball, you cretin. Black and purple. White and cream. Even someone like you can work that out.”

 

Greg bit his tongue. He could feel his temper rising and he forced it down. To lose it now would be catastrophic.

 

“Very good. I'll need your name and a contact number.”

 

“Philip Anderson. My details will be in your file.”

 

This was the moron who had made Molly cry. This pipsqueak of a man who wasn't fit to lick her boots. Greg bit his tongue again, painfully this time.

 

He drew closer to Greg and hissed.

 

“Make  _ very _ sure it's Molly who does the arranging. I don't want your ham-fisted attempts anywhere near the Dorchester.”

 

He drew away and indicated the half-finished bouquet with contempt.

 

“Especially if  _ this _ is the best you can do.”

 

And he stalked out of the door leaving Greg clenching and unclenching his fists. He felt the red mist descend and lashed out, knocking the bouquet to the floor, overturning the arranging table sending ribbon and twine flying and slamming his fists over and over again into the doorframe while screaming inarticulately, oblivious to the pain in his hands, only wanting Anderson back there so he could pummel him instead.

 

“Greg?”

 

Mycroft's concerned voice penetrated his fugue state and he sank to his knees, covering his face with his bloodied hands.

 

_ I'm finished  _ he thought.  _ He won't want a loose cannon like me anywhere near him. Or the rest of the staff. Just when I thought I was getting somewhere. To chuck all this away just because someone wasn't very nice to me. Why can't I handle things better? _

 

Then he felt Mycroft's hands on his rigid shoulders.

 

“Greg? Look at me. What happened?”

 

Greg lowered his hands but he couldn't look at Mycroft.

 

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered. “He upset me. I have a...a bit of a problem with my temper, specially if I get insulted. I'll get my coat.”

 

“What on earth are you talking about?” Mycroft asked. Greg risked a look at his boss and saw only concern and compassion in those incredible eyes. 

 

“You're going to sack me. Thought I'd save your breath.”

 

Only then did Mycroft look mildly annoyed.

 

“I'm not going to sack you. However you do need to tell me what happened.”

 

Slowly, falteringly, Greg recounted the events of that morning and when he finished Mycroft's face was tight with anger.

 

“That man has insulted my staff for the last time. How dare he! Stay there, just for a minute.”

 

Greg watched from his knees as Mycroft pulled out his mobile and made a call.

 

“Philip? Mycroft Holmes. I'm just ringing to tell you we won't be able to fulfil your order for next weekend. And we won't be taking any more of your business. You are a thoroughly loathsome specimen and I will not tolerate you on my premises again belittling myself and my staff, so you can take your business elsewhere. Sherrinford’s will prevail. Goodbye, Philip.”

 

Mycroft returned his phone to his pocket and held out a hand to Greg.

 

“Up you get,” he said with his devastating soft smile. “Let's get your hands looked at.”

 

Mute, Greg followed him to the office where Mycroft produced a first aid kit and filled a bowl with warm water from the kettle. Greg's heart pounded as Mycroft gently washed the drying blood off his knuckles and smeared antiseptic ointment onto the grazes and covered cuts with plasters. He made Greg take a couple of painkillers washed down with tap water.

 

“There. I don't think you've broken anything but if there's any swelling or the pain becomes intolerable, go and get it x-rayed.”

 

“Thank you.” Greg mumbled. “How did you get so good at first aid?”

 

Mycroft smiled as he packed away the kit and disposed of the bloodstained wipes.

 

“Remember me telling you about my brother? In the early days, he was incredibly volatile. This sort of thing happened every other day it seemed. Someone had to do the cleaning up.”

 

“I've let you down,” mumbled Greg. “I'm a liability.”

 

“Nonsense.” said Mycroft briskly. “What were you working on before Philip upset you?”

 

Greg shot to his feet, colour draining from his face.

 

“The Young wedding! It's today and I ruined the bouquet!”

 

“Let's go and see what we can salvage,” said Mycroft calmly.

 

Back in the floristry department, Mycroft righted the table and picked up the abused bouquet.

 

“Come here, Greg. See, it’s nowhere near as bad as it looks.”

 

Greg stood beside him and shook his head.

 

“No. The handle’s cracked and the oasis is damaged. Half the roses are missing their petals..

“

 

Mycroft placed a finger on his lips and Greg shut up.

 

“It's nothing that can't be fixed. Here, I'll help you.”

 

Greg swallowed hard as Mycroft's long fingers closed over his battered ones, guiding him in creating a fresh bouquet. Mycroft was close enough for Greg to feel his warmth and to inhale the smell of him; the woody notes of his aftershave and the hint of washing powder, and the touch of Mycroft's hands was having a powerful effect on Greg. He hoped Mycroft was too engrossed in the work to notice.

 

In what seemed like no time they were finished and moved on to the bridesmaids’ posies, Mycroft deferring to Greg's choice of colour and flower, deftly assisting Greg to create exactly what he had seen in his mind. Before long, the order was complete.

 

“There.” said Mycroft, sounding incredibly pleased. “Those look wonderful. Miss Young will be thrilled.”

 

“They do look good,” admitted Greg.

 

“Yes they do. I have always found that the most beautiful things are often made from what is broken.”

 

_ Shit. Far better you sacked me than for me to pine over what I can't have. And I do want you. Damn you. _

 

Mycroft didn't move away and Greg was astonished to see the longing in his eyes.

 

“Mycroft…” Greg found he had no words. Mycroft closed the space between them and his lips brushed Greg's very gently.

 

“I'm sorry. I couldn't help it,” said Mycroft, two spots of high colour flushing on his cheeks.

 

“Don't apologise,” smiled Greg. “Do it again.”

 

The kiss was warm and very tender, Mycroft's lips soft against Greg's then Greg's arms were around him and there was nothing tentative about it as Greg nibbled on Mycroft's bottom lip, making him sigh with pleasure.

 

“That was lovely,” sighed Mycroft happily. “Greg, I think you should go home and rest your hands for a while. You'll need them for tonight.”

 

“Tonight?” Greg was still processing what had passed between them in the past five minutes.

 

“Yes,” said Mycroft with a cheeky-boy grin that Greg would do everything in his power to see on Mycroft's face again. “I'd very much like to take you to dinner.”

 

“It's a date,” replied Greg, his heart suddenly light as a feather and his senses full of the smell of roses, the language of love.

  
  


The End.


End file.
